


Divergence

by ashardea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Strong Female Characters, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8097064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashardea/pseuds/ashardea
Summary: Hermione chooses an alternate path.





	

The war ends.

Hermione joins the Ministry, marries Ron, and births two children.

They all live happily ever after.

 

Or, maybe:

She divorces Ron after twelve years.  

Irreconcilable differences.

No one lives happily ever after, not really.

 

Perhaps something different:

Maybe they never marry at all. 

 

I.

Hermione receives three letters on 13 August 1999:

NEWT results (all O’s)

An invitation to attend a Ministry of Magic jobs fair

A request from the Daily Prophet for an interview: “The Battle of Hogwarts: One Year On”

In no universe does she accept the interview request. 

 

II.

Two obvious choices present themselves at the job fair:

1\. The Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures

2\. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Neither of these particularly suit, but Magical Creatures seems an obvious fit. She marries Ron a few years later, has two children, and then transfers to Magical Law Enforcement.

She lives happily ever after, right?

 

III.

In most universes, Hermione does the expected: She takes a Ministry job right out of Hogwarts, marries Ron, and births their children.

She’s happiest when Rose raves about her classes at Hogwarts, jumping from topic to topic in a manner that seems spurious to most.

Hermione remembers that thrill, the lightning strike of discovery, that shivery feeling that rushes up and up and up and feels, if she’s honest, better than anything else she finds at home.

In most universes, she acts normatively, in accordance with her peers.

She marries Ron, works within the margins, and dies content, surrounded by grandchildren. 

 

IV.

In one universe, Hermione pours over travel guides for several weeks: Amazing Argentina, Invoking Indonesia, and Magical Malta top the stack. She creates spreadsheets and pro-and-con lists, destroys them all, and then creates them anew.

She puffs breath through newly-cut bangs and smiles, small, but honest. She’ll start in Malta.

 

V.

Now, you wonder:

Why would someone not prone to divergence choose an uncharted life-path?

Perhaps she changed, and you didn’t notice.

If you accept this premise (which you should, given the logic) you must wish to ask:

_What lies at the root of this transformation?_

In most universes, Harry reminds Ron to write to Hermione when she returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year.

In this one, he was called away on an impromptu training exercise just as the thought entered his mind. Shacklebolt’s six-month anytime-anywhere policy for new members of the Auror Academy proved problematic to all recruits. Stress led to iron deficiencies, which caused short-term memory dysfunction.

Harry realizes his mistake years later.

_Radio silence from September til Christmas. No wonder she broke up with him._

By then he figures it might well have been divine intervention, if he believed in that sort of thing.

 

VI.

Hermione asks to speak to Snape’s portrait in the second month of her seventh year. 

Headmistress McGonagall agrees.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she says, “but I don’t know what you expect to get out of him. He hasn’t said a word since he showed up.”

Snape huffs a non-breath and shifts his robes to drape more elegantly over the arms of his chair. 

“And I’ll have no more of that cheek from you,” she says. “I’ve put up with your puffing and twitching since you arrived and it’s wearing on my last nerve!” The headmistress closes the office door with a firm click.

Hermione stands before the portrait, clasps her hands behind her back, and looks at Snape.

They stare, gaze-to-glower, for several minutes.

Finally, Snape’s lips twitch into what might have been a smile on any other man. “Learned the art of silence, then,” he said. “Fine. You get one question, in recognition of the unlikelihood of a Gryffindor intentionally taking on Slytherin traits. Make it a good one.”

“I’m not here to ask anything of you, Headmaster Snape.”

“Granger without a question. Oh, do tell. This gets better by the moment.”

“I simply wanted to tell you that when Harry testified on your behalf at your posthumous trial, he kept the pensieve memories private. They accepted his testimony, and he destroyed the memories. I wanted you to know,” she pauses, “your privacy remains unmolested.”

“Potter wrote to the headmistress some time ago to request she pass on that fact.”

“Ah,” she says, “then I’ll take no more of your time.” Hermione walks to the door.

“A moment, Miss Granger.”

Her hand hovers over the doorknob.

“I take it your,” he pauses, “friends,” a sneer, “whilst forgoing their last year of school, have consequently neglected to engage in a courteous amount of communication?”

She nods, once, without turning from the door.

“All the better for you.”

“And how do you figure that,” she asks, voice thick.

“They hold you back. Excellence is not a matter of perfect marks, Miss Granger. It is in what I like to call the creative use of exceptional resources.” He leans forward in his chair. “And I will tell you something, for your ears only. Come closer, if you would.”

She brushes a hand against her damp cheek, approaches his portrait, and stands ear to canvas.

“I could have chosen another path,” he says. “No one held my arm down and forced me to take the mark. I didn’t see it at the time, and that was my downfall. I thought I had no other options and chose my fate through sheer ignorance of life’s bountiful possibilities. And that is what I offer to you: Choose divergence if it comes to you. Embrace it, and hone your extraordinary gifts. The obvious choices do not suit those like us.”

“Like us,” she whispers.

“Surely Potter, though surprisingly discrete in his new-found maturity, told his two closest companions everything.”  

“He did.”

“Then apply your intellect. Don’t just _use_ it.”

“I see,” she says. A moment passes. “My god.”

“Indeed. You would do well to remember that choices, once enacted, cannot be undone.”

“Thank you,” she says, “I will endeavor to take your guidance into full consideration.” She steps away, and then turns to face him once more. “I mean, I will apply myself to the task of engaging critically with my knowledge, and choose accordingly.”

A pause. “I regret you were not sorted into Slytherin. We would have worked well together in the absence of your dim-witted _friends.”_

 

VII.

Ron and Harry pull Hermione out for drinks every other Friday once she leaves Hogwarts.

“I’m going on a trip,” she says one day, about six months after her NEWTs.

Ron lifts his pint, gulps a drink, and sits it down. Liquid sloshes over the edges. “And then you’ll join us at the ministry, yeah?”

“Maybe,” she says. She brushes a finger through the condensation that lines her glass of white wine.

“We all figured you just needed some time off,” Harry says. “Ah,” he swallows, “war stuff, you know.”

“People say all sorts of things,” she says. “I wouldn’t pay it any mind.”

“Mum said you’re traumatized,” Ron says. “What with that,” he waves at her head, “and all. You know, retreating from society like some kind of muggle veteran and making bad life choices. What do they call it, Harry? Post-it stress?”

“Not quite,” Harry says. He sips his glass of firewhiskey. “Is that it? We never talked about it, but you know you can tell us anything.”

“I just want something different, Harry, that’s all. And Ron,” she says, with a gaze reminiscent of Snape at his most annoyed, “you can tell your mother that my hair is none of her business. And, since you lack any kind of culturally appropriate manners, a gentleman tells a lady her hair looks lovely, regardless of his true feelings.”

“But it makes you look like a–“

“No, Ron,” Harry interjects. “You look great, Hermione. Better than this mop, that’s for sure.” He runs a hand across his head. “Maybe I should go for the military look. Shave it all off.”

“Ginny would kill you,” Hermione says.

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right.” His cheeks pink.

Hermione smiles, a little stronger, and pushes a lock of hair back behind an ear. She sips her wine, tells her friends about her plans, and listens as they talk about being an Auror in the post-Voldemort world.

 

VIII.

Malta holds the best specialist libraries of magical books and literature in Europe. Some say this is due to the climate. Others say Malta, quite simply, is a lovely place for a holiday; even the hardiest academic looks for the sun on occasion. Hermione enjoys the bountiful sunshine through the curtains of her rented room each morning, ingests a brief breakfast of coffee, toast, and fruit, and then apparates to the carrel she signed out for the duration of her research visit.

The largest branch, located near the Hypogeum, holds collections ranging from ancient manuals to a cutting-edge section of muggle literature that reference magical lore. After a month of twisting paths, most of which lead nowhere novel, she picks up a peculiar, cracked leather journal on a whim. It sat, lodged, between a second edition of _Harp Music as Magic_ and an archaic copy of _Harpining’s Homefront Defence Charms_. The three books pull apart with a mighty smack, and pieces of the already-cracked leather binding flake onto the shelf below.

Hermione re-shelves the other two books, pages through the smaller tome, and notes the clear, quality prose and biting wit: in the worst case, she might pass an hour without wanting to edit for grammar. She returns to her workspace, transfigures her chair into a plush corduroy recliner, and settles into nineteenth century Malta.

The anonymous author, a half-blood clerk in the colonial government, narrated daily life with vivid critique. In the midst of an acerbic commentary on his father’s family, he referenced the _F’salib it-toroq_ , a seventeenth-century tome considered mythical within the Maltese magical community. It claimed to explain the structural components of muggle religious history and its relevance to wizarding power, and had been in his mother’s family for generations.

The diarist’s uncle willed the book to his brother. The brother disappeared in Haiti some years later, and the book along with him.

The diarist summed his thoughts on the matter, “if anyone but me is surprised by this turn of events, I’ll parade about Valletta in the clothes I was born with. The whole lot of them lack the very least amount of sense, and I despair for our family’s future.”

Hermione closes the book, slips it onto the nearby desk, and folds her hands. The opportunity to track down an obscure, lost work and the potential of illuminating some of the cultural history damaged by empire, or a few more weeks in the library?

She looks around for prying eyes, duplicates the journal with a swish and two downward flicks, and apparates to the local portkey agency.

 

IX.

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Sinjura Lentini. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go, of course.” She collects Hermione’s breakfast dishes. “Did you see anything outside of the library? You work so hard, my dear. You must take the time or it will be taken from you.” She shifts a juice glass to add the toast rack to the tray. “If you are able to see only one thing, might I suggest the Stella Maris church? My family attended Mass there for years before we moved from Sliema, and it, if I might say, is well worth a visit.”

Hermione rolls her coffee cup between two hands. One more day of work, for the sake of thoroughness, or a day to tour?

“All right, sinjura. If you could direct me, I would very much appreciate it.”

 

X.

She slips into the pew, settles her bag across her chest, and looks up at the statue of the sea-star woman. Our Lady, Star of the Sea, in Catholic parlance, stood on a golden altar and was graced by two angels, one to each side.

The Marian imagery orients both inward and outward, rather than toward her child, or in a demure, prayerful pose. She stands, one hand oriented up and to the sky, angled slightly toward the viewer, and one bent toward her heart. One angel looks up at her, and the other toward an imagined audience. This Mary feels stronger than many others. She intercedes, she does not pray for intercession.

Hermione knows the stories, those that link old gods to new. Some say the Catholics absorbed Isis into Stella Maris. Ancient mariners told stories about the Alexandrian lighthouse, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. Those who took the time to make offerings to Isis Pharia sailed true, as if the light of that wonder graced their every voyage, and those who neglected this rite faced the chaotic ocean without divine assistance. Then, when Christianity spread, and the only options for spiritual life had to be couched in monotheism, Isis Pharia fell into Mary. Or, perhaps, Mary fell into her.

Hermione leaves a few coins in the offertory box as she walks out of the church, a habit born of many years of childhood travel with her parents. Whenever they visited a place with an optional donation box, her father made a point to leave something. “It’s not free, Hermione. When we have a little extra to spare, it’s proper to say thank-you to the people who help keep these places up by assisting in their fundraising.”

She rubs a hand over the box, and wonders if her parents are settling back in to their old house in London.

 

XI.

Hermione dreams.

Two women stand at the foot of her bed, one in blue, and the other in red. They blur together and separate in a rhythmic, flowing motion.

They speak as one.

“You will find the answers you seek in the places where our two worlds meet to create another. Go to Geneva and seek out the location of the Shrine of St Guinefort.”

“I’ve a portkey to Port-au-Prince that leaves tomorrow morning. It cost a small fortune.”

“It is not yet time,” says the woman in blue.

“Persuade them to change your ticket,” says the woman in red.

“Follow the dark mentor’s guidance,” they say, as they merge into one.

“Develop more stereotypical Slytherin traits, you mean.”

“Amongst other things,” they say, “and you know of what we speak.”

They slip apart once more and then say together: “Seek balance. Be courageous, creative, cunning, and constant. No one above the others. Evolve, my dearest, evolve.”

 

XII.

Hermione’s alarm dings at 06:00. Strong sunlight streams through lace curtains. A warm breeze, scented with the essence of the open sea, caresses her face. She smiles, stretches her arms above her head, and sucks in a toe-deep breath.

She wiggles her fingers, shrugs her shoulders, and sits up. A thousand consecutive nights on the platonic ideal of all mattresses could not impart the level of refreshed invigoration Hermione experiences that morning. The tension that plagued her neck, the dryness that impeded her vision, and the perpetual, vague sense of worry lodged in her gut disappeared during the night, like sweating out a fever.

She crosses to the desk in the corner, opens her notebook, and records the entire dream from beginning to end.

She sets her pen down, stands, and approaches the window. There was good precedent for oracular dreams in the magical literature, but each high-quality reference suggested caution in the interpretation. Some witches and wizards tried arithmancy, others divination. Hermione remembers reading a muggle dream-interpretation book that suggested both internal symbolism and the broader cultural associations must be taken into consideration.

This dream requires little in the way of interpretation. Either it includes external guidance, or it was a flight of fancy cooked up by last night’s dinner. Hermione lacks any talent for divination, and needs reference manuals to conduct an accurate arthimantic analysis. Instead, she considers the associated data: Her money, nearing its end, would go further in Haiti. But, Geneva holds numerous opportunities for café work, especially for those with fluent English, conversational French and enough Spanish to get by on holiday.

If the dream was nighttime fancy, then she’ll learn a valuable lesson in discernment. If it proves oracular, it will be well worth a few weeks of food service and hostel living.

In the end, changing the ticket is no trouble at all. It helps that the previous customer spent five minutes screaming about “you inefficient Maltese, unable to run a proper office, why, when I get back to Heidelberg you can be sure I’ll lodge a complaint with the embassy,” and on and on, in that vein, while the clerk grew red from the force of keeping silent.

Finally, the loud man grabs his paperwork and clomps toward his gate.

Hermione waits for the clerk to motion her forward.

“I’m so very sorry to be a bother,” she says when she approaches the counter, “but something has come up unexpectedly. Could I possibly change my portkey to Geneva?”

“Not a problem, madam,” the ticket clerk says. “And,” he smiles, “I would be happy to credit the price difference to your account. Hope you enjoyed your visit.” He stamps a new pass, directs her toward the proper gate and cues the next customer.

 

XIII.

Frost said two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

In reality many roads diverge from multiple points. It takes clarity and courage to see the choices, and strength to choose something _other._

The war ends.

Hermione figures out what she wants. Then, she set herself on a journey.

She lives mindfully ever after.


End file.
